


Busting Five Knots

by hello_imasalesman



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Boat Sex, Established Relationship, M/M, No Spoilers, PWP, amazing that boat sex is a tag, handjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-13 00:12:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18021158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: Arthur’s always found fishing to be boring. So when he goes out on Flat Iron Lake with Kieran, he makes it a little more interesting. PWP.





	Busting Five Knots

“I ain’t good at fishing.” On the opposite side of the rowboat, Arthur’s grumbles are just heard above the water lapping at the hull.

“I know.”

“... I hate fishing.”

Kieran side-eyes Arthur, still slowly reeling in his line. “I know.”

“There’s plenty of things we could be doing instead.” Arthur grouses above the click of Kieran’s spool. Arthur’s irritation is more than apparent with the force he’s using flicking the rod across the water, too hard to attract any fish. Flat Iron lake is beautifully placid early morning, with the sun having just only recently risen east.

“Fishing ain’t that bad, Arthur.” Kieran says softly. “You’d enjoy it more if you tried.”

“Haven’t caught a thing.” Arthur stretches out his leg, nudging the bucket sitting on the boat floor with the toe of his boot. It’s starting to fill with fish, small-mouth bass, though nearly all of them are Kieran’s catches.

Kieran ignores Arthur. He can hear Arthur folding his fishing rod back up, but he pays him no mind. He can do as he pleases, but they promised Pearson at least one buckets worth of fish for the camp stew pot. The boat rocks as Arthur shifts from one side to the other. Kieran spreads his legs to ground himself, digging his heels against the bottom of the boat. “Aw, c’mon, now. Don’t tip us over just ‘cause you don’t want to fish.”

“Not tipping the boat.” Arthur grunts, suddenly close to his ear. Kieran feels himself jump, his startled yelp coming out strangled as the boat pitches sharply to the side, dips enough that some water splashes up and over the side.

“Coulda fooled me!” Kieran warbles, arms outstretched as the rocking slowly evens out, his heart still fluttering in his chest. “You know I can’t swim well.”

“Hm.” Arthur hums. His breath plays hot against the shell of Kieran’s ear as he wraps his arms around him from behind. “Well, you’ll keep still then, won’t you?”

“Arthur—“ Kieran sucks in a sharp breath, shivering as Arthur settles his chin onto Kieran’s shoulder, pressing cheek to cheek, knocking his hat akimbo on his head. He’s white-knuckling the grip on his fishing rod, trying not to jerk it too erratically. “Arthur, you’re going to scare away the _fish_.”

“Damn shame.” Arthur mumbles, unconvincingly. Kieran finds himself not minding half as much as he should, not when he can look down and see Arthur’s thick fingers skating down his chest. He worms his hands underneath his shirt, gun-calloused fingertips brushing against the softness of his belly, tugging teasingly at the dusting of hair there. His hands are warm and gun-calloused, just the right amount of roughness in his touches.

“I’m serious.” Kieran says it with little conviction, especially as Arthur drapes himself around Kieran fully. The boat leans in warning. Arthur’s fingertips try to find their way past the hem of Kieran’s pants, but his belt is in his way. He makes short work of that, tossing it away to land wetly on the floor of the boat. The fishing rod in Kieran’s hands is dipping as his hands go slack; it’s awful hard to concentrate as Arthur thumbs the clips of his suspenders off his slacks, lets his pants sag. He’s already half-hard, embarrassingly enough, and Arthur doesn’t hesitate to pull him out of his pants, spit into his palm before he wraps his hand around his cock.

“Alright—“ Kieran nearly drops the rod into the lake, his words coming out in a whine as Arthur thumbs the head of his cock. “Arthur, w-we’re out— anyone could see us—”

That doesn’t slow Arthur’s strokes. That’s how it usually was in-between them, stolen moments in semi-public situations; he can’t stop thinking of the last time they fished together, the man swimming naked around the bank. It makes his cock twitch in Arthur’s hand, shamefully, the thought of someone from the sandy shore seeing Arthur draped over him like this, his arm jerking lazily up and down, the only thing blocking him from absolute impropriety being the worn side of the rowboat. Arthur Morgan, Van der Linde Gang muscle, wanted in Blackwater for $500 dead— alive was not recommended— wetly mouthing at his neck, his free hand now occupying itself under his shirt. That could make any man dizzy with want.

“Thought you were serious?” Arthur breathes against his ear, scraping a thumbnail against his nipple, hard and pebbled. “There’s a bucket to fill, O’Driscoll.” He turns his mouth to his throat again, runs his lips against the stubble there.

“Can’t catch nothin’ with you...” Kieran swears under his breath, his fingers fumbling with the handle of his spool. Almost turns his head, to speak more at Arthur, but it turns to him just tilting his chin up, exposing more of his skin, a silent plea. “With you neckin’.”

“Then be quick.” Arthur says, almost growls, sinks his teeth into Kieran’s neck in the way that makes him groan and his fingers flex uselessly around the rod.

Distantly, he feels it, in his slack fingertips— something’s on the end of the line, tugging at the piece of corn hooked there. Nibbling, ever-so-slightly. He closes his hands around the rod a little tighter. (So does Arthur, squeezing at the base, calloused grip on just this side of painful—) With trembling fingers, he starts to slowly, slowly, reel it in. The fish bites; and Arthur squeezes, rolls his thumb over the head of his cock, ruddy and oversensitive.

Kieran comes, sudden and hard; he can feel Arthur’s laugh, muffled against his neck, when he shoots between his fingers, over the edge of the boat into the water, the boat rocking underneath them as his body lurches. Kieran hunches and shivers; the rod lies on the floor in a puddle, line snapped. Arthur flicks his hand out over the water, ripples forming where the drops land, unceremoniously wiping the rest onto his work pants.

Kieran lets himself lean back boneless into Arthur, tucking himself back into his pants. The boat rocks. He could be lulled to sleep, almost; the solid warmth of Arthur at his back, the sound of the water against the wood, the quiet, faraway trill of calling morning birds on the shore. Arthur presses his lips to Kieran’s forehead. Not quite a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thanks for reading!
> 
> Tumblr: @hello-imasalesman


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